


Killers of Our Own Kind

by sadiembm



Category: markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Implied Murder, Implied Violence, M/M, Mentioned Jack, serial killer Mark, warm up work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadiembm/pseuds/sadiembm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My girlfriend gave the the though prompt of what<br/>Mark would be like if he were a serial killer and this is what came Of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killers of Our Own Kind

A masterpiece. Beautiful, and disgusting he thought. Raking his dripping hands through his wild hair. Water droplets clinging to his arms and face, he looked in the bathroom mirror, in this house he didn't own. Scratching his stubble and flicking away a dried speck of red. He gazed behind himself in this mirror, to a body. The cool water on his cheeks and around his eyes vaguely reminded him of the high he'd just had. He smiled, then sneered- a wave of emotions lapped at his heels he refused to acknowledge. Lumps in his throat that he swallowed with practiced ease. He spun around against the sink and allowed himself to close his eyes, inhaling the heady metallic smell of fresh blood. He had done good. He was allowed to admire a job well done.  
When Mark gazed down at her body he remained emotionless to the person she had once been. Pressing the toe of his shoe to her face he pushed it to the side, once pretty blonde hair was now matted with blood, and grotesquely tangled. Mark found he rather disliked her hair when he'd first seen her, to much product and far to thin to be attractive. She had pretty blue eyes though, now dead and dull- like looking at a muddy lake in overcast. He hummed to himself, not nearly as pretty as the baby blue eyes of a certain Irishman he knows. Suddenly the contours of his victims face became increasingly disinteresting and he recalled from in the back of his mind that he should probably leave. Abandoning the clean kitchen knife, neatly, in its proper place, and quietly stepping outside of the decrepit home, the sharp creak of the screen door not even causing a flinch. Mark surveyed the old neighborhood, the rusted oil drums In The yard, the black in all the windows in the peaking hours of dawn, the sherbet sky just appearing on the horizon, while night passed away.  
He walked of course, several blocks down and got into his truck. The smooth feeling of leather seat, the steady grip on the steering wheel. The dark man let the engine roar to life, humming as the car vibrated, and shook. He peeked up at the small ornament dangling from his rear-view mirror: a good friend- Tiny Box Tim. He smiled and flicked the little clay box, watching it sway back and forth.   
Eyes trailing down to the green lit clock, he absently realized: he would need to upload a video soon. He also smiled to himself when he realized that Jack would be home in just a few hours to relay their latest kills. And as Mark pulled onto the road he couldn't help but sigh and think to himself: he was king, he was in uncatchable paradise.  
They were unstoppable.


End file.
